


He Keeps Me To Remember

by JoyBurd



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Poisoning, Approximate Magic, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 04:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8875426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoyBurd/pseuds/JoyBurd
Summary: Credence has been holed up in an disused corner of Newt's suitcase for three weeks when Newt finally notices that Pickett is taking a liking to him.((Canon divergent because I respect no one not even myself. Jacob hasn't lost his memory and nobody died.))





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a warning: I have done such an astoundingly small amount of research on Newt's case and I barely know anything about the HP universe. For the most part, I made stuff up. For more notes on that, see the end.
> 
> Inspired by this lovely fanart (with permission from artist! thanks again!) by sadfishkid: http://sadfishkid.tumblr.com/post/154345643538
> 
> TW for puking and underage drinking (to Americans). Or, well, I guess it's all illegal in America since this is in the 20s. But so was homosexuality so who cares.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

Credence has been holed up in an disused corner of Newt's suitcase for three weeks when Newt finally notices that Pickett is taking a liking to him.

Newt tries not to pay overmuch attention to Pickett's whereabouts. After all, Pickett is a responsible, independent Bowtruckle, or at least Newt is trying to teach him how to be one, and too much of a steady hand will never get either of them anywhere.

But if he's being honest, he's grown used to running an absent finger under the collar of his worn out coat and feeling a knotted corner of Pickett's knee or elbow, sometimes even a leafy piece of his head. And he's noticed lately that, more often than not, all he feels is empty space. Pickett may be able to make his own choices concerning his favorite haunts, but he usually picks somewhere on Newt's person. Newt can't help but feel a little abandoned.

He had been letting Credence use the old creaky cot he kept for himself in the case. It had never been intended for extended stays--it was a preservational endeavor, after all, not a bed and breakfast-- so the quarters he kept were hasty and unrefined. Credence didn't seem to mind as he hadn't moved once from the cot, not that Newt had personally observed. Though realistically Newt assumed he must have, at some point. The case had a bathroom--just a pot with an incinerating spell in it, not a wick better than the receptacle he dumps his creature's waste into, he'd admitted to Credence a little shyly when he'd first given him what amounted to a tour--and what passed for a washing station--another bucket Newt filled with a muttered "auguamenti" every time he came by to care for his creatures and check on Credence, though he was careful to behave as though he wasn't.

Credence hadn't acknowledged him at all, hadn't looked at at him directly once, but Newt sometimes felt his eyes on his back, or he'd turn and catch Credence appearing as though he was struggling with a question, tangled on the tip of his tongue.

Newt was patient. He'd been through enough skittish creatures to know what fear and uncertainty look like, even when one is trying to hide them. So Newt did what he would have done for any beast exhibiting signs of stress: he gave time and space, and didn't press too hard with his company. When he was ready, Credence would come to him, and they would figure out how to move forward.

The shoddy little sleep area is shoved into a disused cranny between the Streeler habitat and the Mooncalves. Newt is passing through one day, bucket of pellets in one hand, bucket of cast off Streeler venom that he's being very careful with indeed in the other hand, when he notices a streak of green high on Credence's cheekbone.

He approaches cautiously, not sure whether he's trying not to spook Pickett or Credence. As he gets closer he sees Pickett is swinging happily from a lock of Credence's hair come loose from the controlled outline of his bowl cut.

Credence's hair clearly grows quite fast and quite wild. Just three weeks and it's already curling outward, ends sticking up in all directions like a tangle of thick, dark vines. It's got quite a curl to it, as well. Even Pickett's weight can't pull his chosen strand perfectly straight.

"Pickett," Newt says, admonishing. At the sudden sound of his voice, Credence's shoulders stiffen, and Newt feels a little bit bad because clearly he's started him. "Oh, don't pester our guest."

"It's alright," Credence says, softly, the words catching a bit on his throat, raw with disuse. "He isn't bothering me. Please," Credence says, his eyes edge toward Newt's face but he never quite get there, always dropping before making contact. "Can he stay?"

Newt feels a smile tugging on his mouth. "Of course, Credence. Doesn't bother me at all," he says.

Newt leaves the two to their own devices and continues on to the over-exuberant company of his Mooncalves. After all, no matter how Newt might miss Pickett, this is the first thing Credence has said since he entered the case, and it's certainly the first thing he's asked Newt for.

Newt knows MCUSA would track him down and imprison him again in a heartbeat, half a heartbeat, if they got even a whiff of what he'd done with Credence. The truth is, Credence is just too powerful a wizard to be ripped apart so easily, but his Obscurus wasn't so lucky. An Obscurus is, in the end, just a parasite: all the power it had came from Credence, and the majority of the spells had done a fine job of tearing the Obsurus thoroughly out of Credence, though at no small cost to Credence himself. Getting Credence into his case had been a simple sleight of hand, but the trouble after that had been finding the time to cater to his wounds without drawing suspicion from all the high level MCUSA brass gathered there to tear Credence apart. And then dealing with Grindelwald had been it's own kind of mess. By the time Newt got to Credence, the Obscurus was hanging onto his magic by a loose collection of threads, the same way Credence was hanging onto life. Newt spent a hurried, sweaty handful of hours trying to encourage both the Obscurus and the boy to live to see another day. He was familiar enough with medical care in his creatures to be of no small use, if he thought so himself. There was only so much that was different, and it already took such wide and alternately obscure knowledge to care for what he already had Credence was practically child's play. But by the time morning came, Credence was stable and the Obscurus was gone, bits of ash on the breeze.

Newt was of two minds about this outcome. On the one hand, he'd saved Credence, a life, something he couldn't do for the child back in Sudan. On the other, he couldn't help but be bereft over the loss of the Obscurus. Yes, it was dangerous, clearly, and yes it had almost gotten Credence killed, but it too was a life, one of the only known ones like it in centuries. And yes he already had the one, but one sample does not a decent study make. He still knew practically nothing about them, and the incident in New York was proof of that.

Maybe it was for the best, he thought, pouting into the steam produced by a little kettle he'd cast a quick "incendio" underneath in his shed. It was like Graves had said: the thing was too powerful. It had fed off Credence's strong magic for such a long time. There was no telling if Newt's hasty, patch job could have held the thing. He'd worked on perfecting the spell keeping his Obscurus trapped for such a long time after initially trapping it, though. He'd been, well, he'd been sort of excited to test its mettle.

He's pouring the boiling water through a strainer, still grumpy, but comforting himself with reasonable thoughts and the hope of strong tea, when Credence stumbles in.

"Ah," Newt says, fumbling a little with the tea pot in surprise. Credence's wide eyes watch him carefully, looking as mildly panicked as Newt feels at being clumsy with boiling water. Once he steadies himself, and Credence remains painfully silent, Newt continues, "I see you're..." He was going to say, "well" or "better" but Credence is still pale and empty looking, like everything inside him has been poured out. "I see you're up and about."

At a little flash of green on Credence's shoulder, he adds, "And I see Pickett still pesters you."

"He's... I'm alright," Credence says, but he says it slowly. The words seem to hit him in a strange way, like he isn't used to the sound of his own voice, and didn't mean to say exactly what he said. Credence tilts his head, and it reminds Newt of the Mooncalves, sort of. That inquisitive look, like something's happening they don't quite understand.

"Well, that's good," Newt says. Credence looks everywhere but at him and Newt is suddenly just a little self-conscious about his shed and slapdash method of organizing his possessions. He figures distraction is the best option. "Would you like some tea?"

Credence doesn't seem to know how to respond to this.

"I... if it's not too much of a burden, I would..." he says, stopping and starting like a rusty clock. Newt feels a little like he's broken him.

"No trouble at all. I'm just making myself a cup," Newt says. He gingerly removes the hot strainer from the rim of his tea--hissing a little at the heated metal against his fingers tips-- and scoots the cup across the counter toward Credence.

"Oh. No, I can't take yours," Credence says, not reaching for it.

"I insist," Newt says. He tries to meet Credence's eyes but he looks guiltily to the side. "Please," says Newt.

Credence does finally take the cup, but Newt gets the sense he's mortified him entirely and he's not sure why.

-

Credence gets a cold.

Which is actually quite a feat considering he hadn't left the suitcase. Newt figures he's just susceptible.

Credence's cheeks take on high color and his eyes go glassy. Newt sits on the edge of the cot and dabs at his face a bit before leaving the cool, wet cloth across his forehead. He hates to admit it, even to himself, but Credence really looks kind of...

"Oh wow," says Jacob. "He looks hot. You take his temperature?"

Newt has been bunking up with Jacob for the past few weeks in New York. When he'd told Jacob about Credence, Jacob hadn't been very happy about it, worried primarily about the dual heat of not obliviating him, and keeping a kid who was more or less responsible for the death of a high profile No-Maj, and presumed dead himself, in the same case that had gotten Newt in so much trouble in the first place. But that was why Newt liked Jacob: he was protective, and loyal very quickly. Newt just had to figure out how to extend that protectiveness to Credence.

Telling Jacob Credence had a cold seem to have done a good portion of the trick. Jacob had insisted on making him some kind of soup he said his Italian grandmother used to force feed him when he got sick. Newt had gotten a whiff of it when he'd been spooning it into Credence's mouth and, well, he was just grateful he wasn't the one having to down it. He doubts Credence notices the smell anyway: he's nigh on insensible with fever.

"Do I need to take his temperature?," Newt says, reaching for Credence's cheek. "He's very clearly feverish."

Weak though he is, Credence presses his face into Newt's palm. That's something Newt had noticed about him, how much he likes to be touched. Or rather, how the smallest touches affect him. The smallest brushes of Newt's arm or the accidental bump in the narrow spaces of the case when they pass each other never fails to leave Credence with the appearance that's he's just been deeply shocked. Newt has noticed Credence trying to make himself small, out of the way, but when he can't, when they touch anyway despite their best efforts, Credence seems to sway close, like he smells something nice. Even things like eye contact: Credence never keeps it long. Newt isn't in the habit of keeping eye contact either, but when he tries with Credence he sees this look in his eyes like Newt is both doing him a favor and scaring the daylights out of him.

"We need to get him out of New York," Jacob says. "You probably should have been gone weeks ago. I mean I'll miss you buddy but you can't take this kind of flack. You barely got out the first time."

"Yes," Newt says, removing his hands. "I just want to ask him first. When he's sensible."

That takes a few days. Newt stays in the case, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, casting aguamenti after aguamenti for fresh, cool water to press to Credence's hot skin. Newt is used to burning the midnight oil--sleep evades him often and easily, and he's never quite figured out a good pattern for catching it--but eventually the constant wakefulness wears him out. He falls asleep without realizing it's happening, his cheek pressed into the back of Credence's warm hand. He wakes, disoriented and drooling all over Credence's palm, to a fingers in his hair.

He doesn't move his head much, not wanting to disrupt one of the few actions he's observed Credence take of his own volition, but the little he inevitably shifted upon gaining consciousness makes the fingers disappear entirely. He tries to stay still, hoping to mitigate the mortification Credence will feel at being caught, but he can already hear Credence's breathing speeding up, panic in the harsh, phlegmy movement of air though his chest.

"Credence, how are you feeling?" he asks, lifting his cheek. It sticks to Credence's skin, stinging when he pulls away. "Gracious, I'm sorry about that. I'm a heavy sleeper when I get there."

"I'm feeling better," Credence says slowly. "I'm sorry, I-"

"Please," Newt says hastily, seeing something like fear in Credence's wide, dark eyes. "I took a nap on your poor hand. I couldn't be less bothered if you'd boxed my ears for it."

"I just," Credence starts, then stops himself. His hands fist into the blankets over his lap and he takes a deep breath. "I just think your hair is very pretty. Nice," he says the last word quickly, like he's correcting himself. His eyes touch on Newt's for only a moment, but it's like a shock. It travels all the way to the tips of Newt's fingers.

"Thank you," Newt says. He reaches for a lock of Credence's hair, without thinking about it. It's even thicker now, and his fingers catch on what appears to be the same curling strand Pickett had taken such an interest in. "We can cut yours similarly, if you'd like."

Credence swallows, eyes still wide. He looks down at his hands and presses his lips together until they're pale, bloodless. Thinking.

"I don't think it would look as nice on me," Credence says.

Newt smiles haltingly. "I'm sure it would." Newt is trying, but he can't think of a single hairstyle he Credence couldn't pull of as far as he's concerned. Even the bowl cut couldn't erase the sharp line of his cheek bones, the full press of his mouth, the sweet slit of his eyes. Credence is handsome, arresting. Even sweaty in bed after being sick for a handful of days, Newt finds nothing he would change. He feels like he can't get enough of looking at him. He can't take enough of him in.

"Mary Lou, she never," Credence says, stopping and starting, all hesitance, his usual way. Newt has learned. "She never let me grow it out. And I think," Credence breaths deeply, "I think I would like to try it. Having it long."

Newt presses his hand, full palm, to Credence's cheek. He feels a little guilty when Credence's breath stops entirely, his whole body stiff but swaying, like a tree in a soft breeze.

"I think your fever's broken," Newt says, removing his hand. "In which case, I have something to ask you."

-

Credence shows a certain exuberance for leaving New York that Newt hadn't expected. For all he knows, Credence grew up here. But exuberance for Credence has been rare, so far, and Newt has to read into the way his eyes light up and his eyes get wide in a way that doesn't seem to indicate panic as much as his usual look to make sure it's really what he wants.

Newt goes to the Port Authority the next day to purchase a ticket. London. Single passenger. One-way.

-

He says his tearful goodbye to Tina, but the whole time he's nervous. He feels strongly for Tina, but he knows if she found out about Credence she'd have to turn him in. He doesn't want to put her in that position, and he doesn't want Credence at the mercy of an organization that had so callously tried to end his life. He knows they would again, knows it. No questions, just actions.

"They found Graves. The real one," she says in the cab on the way to the port. "Grindelwald had to keep him alive to keep making pollyjuice potions. Couldn't be sure how much he'd need, you know?"

She seems relieved. He can still see her face in the courtroom, when Graves had sentenced them all to death by that awful Pensieve in the floor. She'd looked hopeless, like something she'd stood on all her life had suddenly fallen out from under her feet.

When he looks at her now, she still seems cautious, but not broken. Rebuilding, but shaky. Newt reaches for her hand.

-

He waits until they're in the middle of the Atlantic to ask Credence if he'd like some fresh air.

He approaches Credence with the idea just as the sun in setting on deck. He finds Credence brushing out the Demiguise, which surprises him immensely. Demiguises are extremely endangered, their fur being used to make invisibility cloaks, after all, and they are characteristically jumpy and people-shy. It had taken Newt months to get this one to warm up to him at all, and he'd never been allowed near its fur unless he was carrying it somewhere, that was for sure. Credence is gentle, his fingers carding loosely through the thick fur. The Demiguise's eyes slit closed in pleasure, like a cat. He has no idea if Demiguises pur, but he'd certainly like to find out of they do, so he watches them, quietly. Just making sure. Newt's never seen someone take so easily to his creatures. He's never seen so many of his beasts take so well to a stranger. He tries not to be, but he is just the slightest bit jealous. Even Pickett had taken longer to warm up to him than he had to Credence. Newt's starting to think he just isn't as welcoming as he imagined. 

"What if people recognize me?" Credence asks, focusing on his task. He knows the entire population of New York was administered a solid dose of Swooping Evil, but he's just as fuzzy as Newt on the limitations of that. If it worked, who on? And what if anyone on the boat had been in any way close to the investigation?

"I suppose if it worked the first time it'll work again," Newt says, aware this logic is faulty. "Besides, there's no MCUSA in the middle of the ocean, is there?"

He doesn't mention the death of the Obscurus. He isn't entirely sure how Credence would take it. He suspects, strongly, that Credence has to know it's gone, but he can't stop thinking about the girl in Sudan, how she'd been begging him not to remove the Obscurus, even as she died. She clearly felt attached, even if it was sucking the life and magic right out of her. He doesn't know how Credence must feel now.

And, really, he's hoping some of the fresh air will take the pallor out of Credence's skin, but in the stormy, fading sunlight on deck he looks even more pale, seasick even. Newt only knows he isn't sick because of the look in his eyes.

Newt leans back against the railing, elbows out over the open ocean, but Credence is staring hard at the horizon, and even from the side Newt can feel the intensity of his gaze.

"If you're looking for New York we're a bit too far from it to see anything, I think," Newt says, glancing over his shoulder at the empty horizon. "Bit disorienting, though, isn't it? Nothing around for miles but water. Not a speck of land to be seen."

"Do I still have my magic, Mr. Scamander? Or is it gone?"

Newt starts a little at the question. "You still have it. Of course. No one gets rid of their magic. I'm not sure it's possible."

Credence's eyes narrow at the horizon. He has the look of someone reaching for something, straining to remember or understand.

"I can't feel it," he says. His eyes fall to his hands and Newt watches his fingers curl and uncurl. "No matter how hard I reach for it, I can't feel it."

Newt processes that, considering.

"I should think," he begins, slowly, "that the way you access your magic will have changed immensely. Pardon me for assuming, but since an Obscurus is a product of repression, I would guess that the only time you used your magic was in situations of great need or stress."

Credence nods, still staring at his hands.

"As much as a strain as my presence and my creatures may be so some, I wouldn't say either is particularly successful at evoking any real survival response. So while you may be used to utilizing very powerful emotions to access your magic via your Obscurus, you-"

"I don't think that's it," Credence said. "I don't have any-Calling up stressful memories isn't much trouble for me."

Newt looks away from him, embarrassed. "Of course not. I didn't mean... I didn't mean to make you feel-"

"I'm fine," Credence says. "I just... I don't want to have gone through all this and then not have...Not be..."

Credence presses his lips together and he sniffs a couple times, in quick succession. Newt looks away, does him the favor of not staring directly at him while he cries.

"I've never heard of anyone losing their powers," Newt says carefully, after awhile.

"Yes, but Mr.Graves told me this thing was rare. Really rare. And hard to spot. Maybe no one knows enough about it to be sure of anything," Credence says.

It's so much, all once that Newt does stare at him, then, shocked into silence. It's the most Credence has said to him all once yet. Clearly, it's been on his mind.

"I would have felt it," Newt says, "if when I cleaved the Obscurus from you, I was also cleaving your magic. I would have known and I would have asked you."

Credence doesn't respond. He's looking at his hands again.

"But there is, one quick test we can do," Newt says, "to determine whether you're magical or not,"

Credence's wide eyes hit his and Newt expects him to look away immediately but he doesn't. Just keeps looking.

Newt ducks his head, embarrassed. He fumbles in his pockets and produces his wand, eventually.

"Should we go back to the room for this?" Credence asks, turning toward Newt expectantly even as his eyes flit nervously around the deck looking for any Muggles standing too close.

Newt shrugs sheepishly. "We'll be quick about it."

"Alright," says Credence. "What's the test?"

Newt holds out his wand. Credence glances into his eyes again and when Newt nods, he wraps his fingers around the wood.

Almost instantly a bolt of blue light shoots out of the wand, zipping out to sea, and Credence reels back like he's been electrocuted. Newt's distantly glad he pointed the end away from the boat.

Credence shakes a little. "Does that-Is that good?"

"Oh, well," Newt makes a couple of vague gestures, "everyone has their various responses. And I'm no Ollivander, that's certain. And clearly this is not the wand for you-"

"Mr. Scamander," Credence says.

"Right, yes. You're quite magical. And clearly very powerful, if that," he gestures out to sea after the little blue bolt, "is any indication."

Credence presses his lips together, and resumes his previous position staring out at the horizon. But his shoulders look a little less knotted now, Newt notices.

"I'm sorry," Newt says. "If I had known you were worried about this I would have brought it up sooner."

"Will you teach me magic, Mr. Scamander?" Credence says, and when he looks at Newt he's got the same mad, determined look he'd previously been staring out to sea with. The one that made Newt very certain he wasn't taking to illness again.

"I don't know that I'm a very good teacher," Newt says softly. "And you're very strong. We might...break something."

All the fight goes out of Credence at that. He drops his eyes to the railing, and Newt sees his eyelashes catch the grey light.

"Am I dangerous, then, Mr. Scamander?" Credence asks. His voice is steady.

Newt sighs. "I'm not sure. The only danger you pose now hinges on your ability to control yourself."

Credence seems to take that in, then says, "Can you teach me control?"

Newt scratches the back of his head, turns around so he's staring out to sea as well, elbows propped on the railing next to Credence.

"Control was never my particular problem. My magic is quite weak, actually. Mostly I just know how to, patch it all together."

"You made your case, didn't you?" Credence asks. "Is that not...I think it's very impressive."

"Yes, well," Newt can feel his face heating up, despite the slight breeze blowing across the deck. "A stronger wizard wouldn't have had to use painted backdrops and fake rocks." Newt glances at Credence, considering. "Perhaps a wizard as strong as you are could have put a whole rainforest in that case. A real one."

Credence chews on that, and even though he tries to hide it Newt can see the slightest little smile pulling at Credence's lips.

That gives him an idea. He straightens up and presses his hands flat against the wooden railing, testing, pressing. It's sturdy. Not going anywhere.

"Credence," Newt says. "Why don't we go get some dinner?"

-

Newt doesn't know a single, solitary thing about wand-making, but no one can say he isn't the type to try new things before he's fully oriented.

He ends up breaking off a loose balustrade near the bar, causing Credence to stare at him in alarm as Newt rushes him out of the dining area of the steamer.

"It was loose," he says, by way of explanation. And Credence knows by now that he's a bit eccentric, a smidgen strange, so he doesn't argue.

Credence seems reluctant to go back in the case when they return to the room, so Newt tries to engage him in conversation. When that ends up a bit stilted, he offers Credence brandy.

"It's nothing special," he explains, pouring no more than a few ounces into one of the dusty cups that came with the room. "But I have been saving it."

"I've never," Credence stares into the cup. "I've never had anything...alcoholic before."

"You won't like it much initially," Newt says, trying to warn him as he sees the cup edging toward Credence's lips. But it's too late. Credence sputters, mouth going wide as he gags at the taste.

The brandy loosens Credence significantly. Newt finds as long as he steers the conversation away from New York, Credence is quite a lovely conversationalist. He's observant, and more well-read than Newt might have anticipated. And he has all sorts of questions about Newt's creatures. What are the pellets made of that the Mooncalves eat, and is their habitat really what the moon is like? The Niffler likes most to be scratched under the bill, has Newt noticed? What are the huge beetles in front of the shack? Why does the large rhino glow? Are the snake-bird things scaly or feathery, he's been a bit too scared of being bitten to get close? What exactly IS Pickett? Does all this mean dragons are real?

Newt gets so involved in explanations he forgets to note how much Credence is imbibing. He also doesn't notice how close Credence is until it's too late.

Newt is in the middle an explanation about why one of the Runespoor's heads has a bucket on it and why its natural instincts would lead it to bite at its other heads in the first place--and most importantly why Credence shouldn't stray too close to any one of the heads without Newt present-- when he realizes Credence's face is terribly close to his own. He realizes they're making eye contact, full eye contact, and they have been for quite some time, and that Credence keeps leaning closer, all interest, all wide-open intent, like he doesn't even notice the space disappearing between them.

In the end, Newt covers the remaining distance on his own because he can't bear it. He can't bear the naked interest in Credence's eyes, the first unguarded emotion he's seen on Credence's face since he'd packed him away in his case. People usually listened to Newt with this look like they thought he was crazy, just a little. But Credence, this sheltered, battered boy, has nothing on his face but wonder, and Newt loves him for it.

Credence kisses him sloppily, his lips everywhere, and Newt grabs for his chin to try to still him, calm him down. He presses his thumb into Credence's cheek, making his mouth open. Credence tastes like brandy, overwhelmingly like brandy, and Newt can't remember why that is at the moment.

There's a zap and a sizzle and that's what brings Newt back to himself. He pulls his mouth away from Credence's and looks in the direction of the noise. There's a small part of the wall that is now black and smoking, no more than a coin sized dot, but it's enough of a message to Newt. It's Credence, his uncontrolled magic, reaching out prompted by, well, stress, of a sort. It's dangerous to get him into any situation where his wits aren't entirely about him, and Newt starts cursing himself for not realizing this.

"Credence," he says, and his voice comes out rough. Credence is still mouthing at him, lips falling from his cheek to his neck like he has any idea what he's doing. At Credence's lips on his neck Newt's breath hitches, he feels himself have a very physical reaction, and his whole body jerks, curling in and pressing Credence away. "Credence," he says more forcefully, but his voice cracks again.

"Mr. Scamander," Credence says, and his voice is rough too but it fits, rumbles out of him like thunder, all natural and perfect. Newt shivers, half surprise, half something else. "I think I might be drunk."

"Might be, yes," Newt says. He grabs Credence's shoulders, mostly to keep him at a distance but also to keep him upright. Credence has begun to sway, and they're both on the edge Newt's narrow cabin bed anyway. If he falls Credence will surely bang his head against the shelves and he may injure himself, quite severely.

Newt doesn't think he'll be getting him into the case in this state. Not without practically killing him, or at the very least overstraining him.

"Just lay down," Newt says. He pushes Credence's shoulders back, standing as he goes. "That's the ticket."

"Mr. Scamander," Credence says. Out of the corner of his eye, Newt sees Credence's hands and, around his fingers, little strings of blue light pop and sizzle into the air. Newt's careful to stay out of the way of his hands. "You're fascinating. I like kissing you. I've been- I wanted to."

"Alright, Credence," Newt says. He pulls the thin sheet that came with the room up to Credence's neck. He can see little burnt spots popping up on the sheets from the uncontrolled magic flitting out of Credence's fingers. "Try to rest now. I get the sense you're going to have one rouser of a hangover tomorrow. You're quite owled."

"Owl," Credence says, catching on the one familiar thing he said. "You've got that bright pink owl." But his eyes are unfocused, just like they were when he was feverish, and he's slipping into sleep fast. "What is that thing?"

"It's a Fwooper," Newt says, but Credence is already asleep.

-

Newt stays up. He grabs rubber gloves--a non-conductor, so he won't burn his hands on Credence's stray magic, which seems to manifest itself in the form of small streaks of lighting, which Newt confirmed the hard way--and a canvas bag he doesn't care about from his case, and keeps both by the bed. He's been here before with the alcohol at least, and a hangover and the rocking of a ship are never a good mix. The sizzling bits of blue stop when Credence isn't conscious, but the first few times he's sick Newt has to be careful touching him: magic pools around heavily, thick like the air before a storm. In between holding the bag and the little bits of Credence's hair that risk getting mucked up, taking the gloves on and off to touch him, checking Credence's hands, Newt takes to the balustrade with one of his herb chopping knives.

It's much more difficult than he anticipated. He tries shaving off a piece thick enough to approximate a wand but it takes quite a bit of sawing and he doesn't want to wake Credence. He messes up a few times, cuts pieces too short, too thin, before he gets a good one. Then he messes that one up, cuts a bit too deep trying to refine the edges, and he's thinking about starting over when he hears Credence stirring again, groaning quietly.

Newt stands up, reaches to touch Credence's forehead--out of habit he supposes, from nursing Credence's cold--and his fingers just brush his hair when he sits up, perfectly straight, eyes wide, breathing hard.

"I'm sorry. I've overslept. I didn't mean to. Please don't-" Credence stops, suddenly seeming to take in Newt's own expression, the curved ceiling of the cabin.

"I'm," he says again, still breathing hard. His eyes close, and he looks pained, with more than just a hangover. "I'm sorry."

"Credence, lay back down," Newt says.

"I'm sorry," Credence says, and he looks desperate, like he needs Newt to understand. "Mr. Scamander, I'm sorry. I-"

"I'm sorry, Credence. I got you drunk. It was irresponsible of me," he says.

"That's alright, Mr. Scamander. It was nice. At first." Credence laughs, a voice a little rough after being sick so many times.

"Have I never asked you to call me Newt?" he says. He brushes a little curl off of Credence's clammy forehead. He can't help himself.

"Never," Credence says, eyes shutting as he presses his head up into Newt's fingers. "But I will. I will."

-

It's a bit difficult to hide the carving process from Credence in the two days it takes him to finish it. Newt can't bear to ask him to get back in the case while he's hungover, knowing the salty air can't do anything for him but a world of good. So Newt hides the carving in his case, though he struggles a little to keep it out of the reach of the very inquisitive Mooncalves and the Erumpet sees only something vaguely horn-like and just that excites it. The Bowtruckles appear horrified at the butchered piece of wood, so he has to keep it away from them as well, and it's all a small fiasco until he has something that resembles a wand, if a bit rough-hewn and slapdash.

He holds it up to the lamp light in his shed and for a moment he feels proud. He's never made anything like a wand before, and he feels somewhat nice about the outcome. It's nothing to brag about but no one could argue that it isn't wand-like. It's got a handle and everything.

Then he feels ridiculous. He can't present Credence with this. What will he think of him? What will he think HE thinks of him? He told Credence he couldn't teach him magic. That was fair enough. After, all he'd been expelled. Why couldn't he just stick with that?

And of course when he thinks of Credence he remembers the kiss. He'd been throwing himself whole-heartedly into the wand carving partially to forget, forget the feel of Credence's petal soft lips on his, the wet slide of his tongue, the rough feel of his chin in Newt's fingers, and most of all the sounds Credence made. Newt hadn't even noticed them until he'd replayed the incident in his mind, realized the vibrations he'd felt against his skin had been sounds. And he'd felt that realization all the way down his spine.

He stands straight up, knocking over a few things on his desk. He's got creatures to care for, he can't afford to be distracted like this, after all. He has things to do, a Runespeer to see to, things of the sort.

He doesn't have to face this head on if he doesn't want to. He can distract himself. So he does.

-

He does the rounds, checking on his creatures, but he saves the Bowtruckles for last. Certainly not because they're his favorites: he'd never admit that. Bowtruckles require very little upkeep, really. His main concern is population size--they tend to put so much of themselves into caring for their tree habitats that reproduction entirely slips their minds. He's focusing very closely on counting the little creatures, as they can be quite difficult to spot, when he hears Credence behind him.

"Mister, ah, I mean, Newt," Credence says, by way of announcing himself. "I just came in. I hope that's alright.

"Credence, you're always welcome," Newt says warmly. "Have you seen-Well, there he is."

Pickett is camped out on Credence's shoulder, staring at Newt like he's never done a thing in the world. Newt reaches a hand out for him but Pickett gives him a petulant look and disappears into Credence's hair.

"Applesauce," Newt says. "I suppose I'll never find him like that."

"I don't mind him," Credence says, and Newt thinks that he wouldn't. That's so like him. Newt thinks of every time he's touched Credence, how he seemed to long for it, and suddenly he feels so unspectacular. Maybe Credence is starved for any touch, not just his. Maybe it has nothing to do with him and never did.

Newt's chest hurts a little and reaches for his shirt collar, tugging at it.

"I came down to tell you. They made an announcement on the overhead. We'll be in London by tomorrow, midday."

"That makes sense," Newt says, realizing suddenly that they've been five days on the ship so far. Then he's sad, all of a sudden and all at once. He gets the sense that something is coming to an end, that he's missing a chance that's been offered to him. The sensation that everything will change once they hit British soil smacks into him like an automobile and knocks words out of him.

"Credence, I," he's speaking before he really thinks about what to say. "I have something for you. It's awful really. It's not very good. But I thought, well, I suppose I thought-Here, just. Why don't you take it."

Newt pulls the short, knotted wand from his pocket, where he kept it next to his.

Credence takes it, gingerly, holding each end with the tip of a finger like too much contact might be dangerous. He probably remembers what happened last time, Newt thinks. But nothing does. It just looks like a piece of wood as Credence holds it.

"It's from that balustrade, at the bar. Oak, I think. I've just carved it very quickly and I've never-Well, it shouldn't work. And we'll take you to a wand shop in London, anyway. I suppose it's just something for you to, to have."

Credence's face goes very still, and in a display of competence that nearly scares the life out of Newt Scamander Credence flicks the thing expertly, pointing at the ground. A small bolt of blue light zaps out of the tip, hitting the sand with a sizzle.

"It works," Credence says.

"It certainly does," Newt says, and he feels that bubble of worry in his chest again. The feeling that something is slipping away from him. No need to take Credence to Ollivander's now. Credence won't need him at all. He turns back to his Bowtruckles with a sniff, tries to take up counting them again though he's lost his place entirely.

"Newt," Credence says, and Newt tries, really does, not to have a physical reaction to his name in Credence's mouth but Credence says it so well, so deep. "I need to thank you."

"Please don't," Newt says, but his voice is quieter than he means it to be. All this time he's felt so much larger than Credence, but now he feels very small, very like a shivering, scared creature. When he turns back around Credence is much closer to him than he was. And he's never noticed Credence is quite so tall, every bit as tall as he is, and he realizes it may be because, for the first time, Credence appears to be standing up straight, shoulders up, nothing but quiet focus in his posture.

"You saved my life. You saved everything," Credence says. He looks up, toward the painted canvas ceilings of the case, like a circus tent. "I can't tell you what it means to me. I've never been anywhere but New York."

"I'm afraid this case isn't much compared to New York," Newt says, with a self-depreciating laugh.

"It is to me," Credence says. "This is freedom, for me. This is exactly what it feels like. I've thought about it all my life and I know it when I feel it."

Newt knows that should make him sad but it doesn't. He's grateful, grateful to have been able to give this to Credence, happy it means so much. Even if it's slapdash, thrown-together. Hastily carved out of a bar balustrade.

"Credence, when we get to London," Newt starts, and it almost hurts him to ask this but he presses on. "What would you like to do?"

Credence frowns, his dark brows drawing together.

"Because I have, friends. Or, rather, there's a school you can go to. You're a bit old but. I'm-I'm friends with a teacher there, a very good man. He could-"

"I want to say with you, Newt," Credence says.

Newt knows he's staring at Credence, feels his breath and his heartbeat, like distant things unrelated to him. Credence starts to shuffle, uncomfortable, but it's like it's always been. Newt just can't look away.

"If that's okay. If it's not too much of a burden. I can help you, you know, with your creatures. I like them. They're so, well most of them, they're so lovely and I-I don't need to learn magic all that badly, just-"

"Of course we'll teach you magic," Newt says.

And he crosses the space between them, forgets about Pickett for a moment as he knits his fingers into Credence's hair and pulls him close. Credence comes into the kiss smiling, Newt can feel him against his lips, can feel the happiness practically vibrating across his skin, the way the ground feels before lightning strikes.

Newt feels Pickett's sharp fingers across his hands in Credence's hair, knows he must have annoyed him, but he can't focus on that feeling outside of being sure to move his hands away because Credence is slotting his hips into Newt's and suddenly Newt can't breathe.

Credence hangs on the edge of Newt's open mouth, biting at his lower lip.

"Stay still," Credence says. "Stay right here."

And Newt isn't sure what he means until he realizes Credence's mouth is drifting lower and lower. He's grasping Newt's shoulders, his chest, his abdomen, his hips.

Credence is on his knees before Newt comes back to himself.

"Wait, wait, Credence," Newt says with a breathy laugh. Credence looks up at him, mouth pink, hands in fists on Newt's thighs, and Newt almost lets him continue.

"Have you ever done this before?" he asks.

"No, I-No I haven't." Credence looks off to the right and his hands drop off Newt's legs to his own thighs. Newt thinks he sees shame in Credence's face.

"That's not what I mean," Newt says, dropping to his knees so he can look into Credence's face. He puts his hands on his shoulders, pressing. "Just lay back. Let me."

Credence's eyes flick back up to his--uncertain and disbelieving, but not ashamed anymore--and Newt smiles at him, hoping he looks reassuring though he's sure he just looks a little manic. He usually does.

Credence lets himself be pushed, laying back in the sand as Newt crawls between his thighs. Newt kisses the seam of his trousers, following the line down to his cock, pressing painfully against the cloth of his pants. Newt reaches for his belt and Credence's hands find his, helping with the buckle like he's done it a thousand times without even looking.

Newt shuffles Credence's pants down just enough to free his cock and he feels his mouth start to water.

Newt's messed around before, with men and women, but this is by far his favorite. He loves getting his mouth on his partners, watching them fall apart under him. He never gets enough of it.

Newt mouths at the vein running up the side of Credence's cock, letting the tip smear across his cheek. Credence is gone, already: all Newt can see of him from this angle is his mouth, open and red and moaning.

Newt reaches another hand up and wraps his fingers around Credence, steadying him so he can take the tip into his mouth.

"Ah! I'm-" but that's all Credence gets out before he's coming, half into Newt's mouth, half over his lips and chin.

"Sorry!" Credence says, sitting up on his elbows. "Sorry, I didn't mean-"

Newt makes sure Credence is looking him straight in the eyes when he licks his lips.

"Credence," Newt says, his voice soft. Some of Credence's come dribbled off onto his wrist, and Newt brings it to his lips, mouths off the tiny drops. Credence's chest is heaving. "It's no trouble. None at all."

Credence surges forward, mouth attaching to his. Through the haze that apparently always falls over him when Credence kisses him, Newt is vaguely aware Credence is only grabbing at him with one hand. Newt reaches out blindly for the arm not touching him, follows Credence's bicep down past his elbow and pale, long forearm where he wraps his own hand around Credence's, still grasping the wand Newt had made for him. Newt feels his heart swell in his chest, and he kisses Credence harder.

When Credence reaches with his one hand for Newt's bowtie, Newt stops him.

"If we undress in this sand we will absolutely regret it," he says to Credence.

Credence is breathing hard, and his lips are swollen and loose. Newt rubs a thumb against his lower lip, not realizing until it's too late that even his thumb is covered in sand. Grains stick to Credence's wet lips and he pouts, just a little. Newt presses a quick kiss there, getting sand in his own mouth, and as he pulls away he hears Credence laugh, a short harsh sound, like he's not used to making it.

Newt stands, pulls Credence up by the hand and keeps holding. Credence's palm is sweaty but Newt doesn't care. He's sure his is as well. He just wants to be touching Credence, as much as possible.

He leads Credence to the same cot where he'd nursed him after his cold. Credence pulls back a little on Newt's hand, and Newt stops dead in his tracks.

"If you don't want to continue, all you have to do is tell me, Credence," Newt says seriously, meeting Credence's eyes.

Credence shakes his head. "I want to. But the cot. Won't it... I mean do you think it's going to hold up under-"

Newt's eyebrows shoot up. "Well, I should hope so. What exactly are you intending to do to me, dear Credence?"

Credence goes completely red and Newt pulls him close, trying not to laugh as he kisses every spot of Credence's face he can think to kiss.

"I'm sorry. We can put some strengthening charms on it, if it will make you feel better," Newt says.

"We," repeats Credence. Newt's mouth is on his neck, and Credence reaches up to tangle his fingers in Newt's messy hair. "You'll show me how?"

"Of course I will," Newt says. But when Credence rolls his hips into Newt's he feels him hard again against his thigh. "Maybe not just now, though."

"No, not now," Credence mimics, and he pulls Newt up into another kiss.

Credence is an unrefined kisser, all exuberance and wet mouth, but it works on Newt like a charm. He's not paying a bit of attention to Credence's hands until he's sliding Newt's shirt off his shoulders and Newt realizes he's a bit behind.

He turns them, pressing Credence back into the cot. It creaks angrily at them, but Newt figures he can just fix it later, if worst comes to worst. He's definitely not stopping for the strengthening charms now.

Credence's hand is on the opening of his trousers, fumbling and clumsy with just the one. Newt has no idea how he managed to get his shirt off with just one hand: Newt is struggling with Credence's shirt even with his two. Between his kisses driving him to distraction and Credence's searching fingers, Newt only gets halfway down Credence's shirt when he grabs Newt's cock in his hand and gives it a full squeeze.

Newt's mouth gasps open against Credence's, his eyes shutting and his hips moving without his permission.

"Is this okay?" Credence asks, giving Newt's cock a long pull, fingers slipping over Newt's sensitive skin.

"Yes," Newt breathes. His head drops down to what little he's managed to expose of Credence's chest. He swallows, and Credence jerks him again, slowly, twisting a little near the head. "It's brilliant."

For a little while he loses himself to the tentative pull of Credence's fingers, hips jerking into Credence's hand. But eventually he wants more.

He makes quick work of the rest of Credence's buttons, pushes the shirt open so it's spread out on either side of Credence like wings. Newt puts his hands on Credence's rib cage, leveraging himself so he can grind down into him. Credence's mouth drops open again, but he doesn't stop handling Newt, pulling Newt so close to the edge he can taste it.

"Wait, wait," Newt says. "I want-Wait, a second."

Credence stops the movement of his hand and Newt slides off him. It takes him a bit of shuffling under the cot, but eventually he finds it.

"Newt?" Credence says.

"Don't worry," Newt says. He unscrews the top of the jar, dipping his fingers in. "It's for me."

"I'm not worried," Credence says, but he's watching Newt like a hawk.

"Help me with these," Newt says, and Credence reaches down to help Newt slide out of his open trousers.

Newt keeps his eyes on Credence as he reaches back, fingers at his own entrance.

"What are you-Oh," Credence says, in response to the look on Newt's face. Credence reaches back, touching lightly where Newt's fingers are buried within himself. Newt groans.

"Can I?" Credence asks.

Newt licks his lips, considering. "Just the two at first. Take this," he says, offering the jar to Credence. Credence coats his fingers and returns to Newt's entrance.

"Good, now just, spread them slightly. Ah! That's the way," Newt says, hips moving just a little, pressing himself into Credence's fingers. He waits a little, until the stretch becomes easy, and then he asks Credence for another finger.

He undoes Credence's own trousers, pulls them down just enough to have access, and reaches back into the jar, getting more liquid into his hand before clutching at Credence's cock. Credence groans sharply, hips following the movement of Newt's hand while he coats him, and the feeling of them both already moving in sync is almost too much for Newt.

"That's fine. That'll do," Newt says, gripping Credence's wrist. Credence's reaches for Newt's hip as Newt resettles over Credence's cock, guiding him in.

Newt sinks onto him slowly and he swears Credence doesn't breathe out the entire time, gasping in breath after breath, fingers fluttering against Newt's hip. When Credence is finally fully seated inside him, Newt can feel it's only the pressing reminder of his own weight keeping Credence from bucking up into him, and he's distantly glad he chose this position.

Credence's fingers dig into Newt's hip so hard he thinks he'll have bruises. He likes that thought.

"Credence I'm going to move," Newt says.

"Please," Credence gasps. "Newt, please."

Newt starts slow, only grinding at first, but then Credence hits something inside him, just brushes it, just barely, and he can't help himself. He sets a brutal pace, thighs burning, and Credence meets him every step. He comes over Credence's chest, the white of his release nearly matching the bright white of Credence's skin. He feels Credence come, too, the hot gush of it inside him, and through the ringing in his ears he hears Credence saying his name.

Newt lets himself fall forward, pressing his forehead into Credence's and ignoring the sticky feel of his release between them. Credence doesn't seem to care about it either. His arms come around Newt's back, pulling him closer like he can't get enough contact even when he's still inside Newt.

"Are you alright, Credence?" Newt asks, pushing up just a little to look into his face.

"I'm-" Credence looks a little bewildered. "I'm very good."

That reminds Newt and he lifts his head up, looking around for any signs of burning. He feels Credence slip out of him when he does but ignores it, even though he feels Credence shiver.

"What?" Credence asks, panic just at the edges of his voice. "What is it?"

"Nothing. Don't worry," Newt says, placing a hand flat on Credence's chest. "It's just that... When I gave you that brandy, you know, and we-Well, I kissed you, there was-"

"I kissed you," Credence says, insistent.

"Credence, you were so drunk and I was considerably less so. Please let me take responsibility for that. But you, well your magic, it kind of-"

"Sizzled," Credence says, thoughtfully. "I felt it."

"Yes, well. Did you feel it this time?" Newt asks.

Credence shakes his head. "But it did feel like it was...channeled." Credence lifts his hand, still clutching the makeshift wand Newt had made for him. "Do you think-?"

Newt shrugs. "I wouldn't know a thing about it."

"Me neither," Credence says.

Newt laughs and the truth just pours out of him, easily, loose. "I want you. Credence, I want you to stay. I want to try to teach you charms and magic. I want you to help me, here in the case."

Credence's fingers brush Newt's spine and he nods. That's enough.

-

They walk off the boat the next day to uncharacteristically sunny weather for London. Credence carries Newt's case and Newt carries their overcoats. Credence also carries the wand Newt gave him, deep in his pocket, and Pickett, hiding somewhere in his hair, camouflaged. "Where are we going?" Credence says as they press through the crowd. He's struggling a little with the weight of Newt's case, but he'd insisted on carrying it. Newt shuffles the coats in his arms and tries not to think about how fond he is of Credence in his scarf. The day is warm, but not warm enough, never warm enough in London, so Credence borrowed one of Newt's scarves, the one from his school days as a Hufflepuff, though Credence couldn't know that yet. "I've got some idea," he says, thoughts of his first time in Diagon Alley, wide-eyed at the creatures in the windows and bored at the wand shop. He supposes they should go see Ollivander just in case. Newt bets they've never seen a case like this in that shop, not in all many years they've been in operation. It's sure to be much less boring to him this time. 

Newt wants to show Credence everything. Newt wants to show him the whole world, the real one. The world he has always, really, belonged to.

**Author's Note:**

> I struggled mightily with the architecture of Newt's case, to the point I was punching myself for deciding to put almost this entire fic inside it. What I did do was pour over The Case of Beasts, in which I found a picture that clearly indicated the people behind the movie made a map of Newt's case and just didn't... release it? Anyway, using that approximation of a map, I did what I could.
> 
> That's also where I got the Runespoor and the bucket situation. I mostly used that book as an outline for the creatures I mention.
> 
> If anyone knows of a map of his case please link me to it, I beg you.
> 
> Also my knowledge of Harry Potter in general is characteristically shallow so if anyone has any corrections let a bitch know in the comments. I'm totally open to hearing them.


End file.
